"Unwin's the lucky beggar. When do you sail, old chap?"
"To-day fortnight, praise the powers! No more dancing attendance on Waziris for eighteen good months to come." He stretched his cramped legs contentedly. "Those Johnnies on the wall seem to be getting bored with our show. We ought to have brought a couple of banjos along to amuse their majesties!"
It was true. Gradually, by twos and threes, the villagers were melting away: and Desmond, who was leaning against a tree trunk close to Norton, helmet tilted over his nose, apparently half asleep, touched the civilian's arm.
"I say, Norton," he said under his breath. "Take your oath it's all square?"
Norton looked round sharply.
"My dear man, we've eaten their food. Ever know a Pathan commit a breach of hospitality?"
"No. But it looks queer."
For by now their audience had practically disappeared. The village wall was empty, save for one crouching figure, that sprang suddenly and silently to its full height, and brandished a bared sword: the blade flashing like a helio in the strong light.
"What's the mutlub[3] of that theatrical interlude?" Richardson demanded with a laugh; and was answered by a signal shot from the watch-tower behind.
In a flash all eight of them were on their feet: Montague and Lenox shouting to their men to 'fall in.'